


i was born in a summer storm, i live there still

by Popeee



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Gentleness, M/M, Rain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:26:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25388272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Popeee/pseuds/Popeee
Summary: The first week back at school fuckingdrags.An alternate (rainy) evening in an alternate universe.
Relationships: Arthur/Eames (Inception)
Kudos: 51





	i was born in a summer storm, i live there still

**Author's Note:**

  * For [foxxcub](https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxxcub/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Simple Math](https://archiveofourown.org/works/197742) by [foxxcub](https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxxcub/pseuds/foxxcub). 



The first week back at school fucking  _ drags. _

It’s not like Arthur’s been sitting on his ass all summer, what with his internship at the architectural firm, being dragged around colleges by his ghastly grandparents and three gruelling weeks of preseason in the DC humidity, but getting back into the rhythm of school-practice-homework, rinse and repeat, hits him like a ton of bricks. 

All their teachers start the first lesson back by leaning back on their desks, surveying them sternly and disabusing them of the notion that their senior year is going to be any less rigorous than last year. Saito gives them so much homework on the first day it’s clear they’re going to be eating derivatives for breakfast, lunch and dinner. 

-

He goes with Ariadne to Robert’s on Friday night because he promised moral support, even though he’s so tired all he wants to do is curl up on the couch and watch the Food Network with his mom.

The Fischer house is ridiculous and Arthur loses Ariadne almost immediately. 

He shoots the shit with Dom and Mal for a while, who’re back for the weekend from Columbia for some family thing, and also because Dom apparently left half his stuff behind, which is actually typical. 

“Man, how’d you forget all your  _ fucking clothes _ ?” Arthur asks, incredulous. They’re lounging against the railings on the back porch. There’s an oppressive stillness in the air, like it’s gonna start pouring any minute. Dom just squints at him, and Mal snorts into her cup. 

He’s wandering through the endless rooms, looking for something not-in-a-red-cup, because he has to drive, when he bumps into Ariadne and Yusuf. Ariadne’s hand is in Yusuf’s back pocket, and Yusuf’s hair looks even wilder than usual. 

“You got a ride home?” Arthur asks her, looking between them. 

“Yup,” Ari says, grinning, and gives him a tight hug. Yusuf just beams, flushed all over. 

Arthur makes an  _ I’m watching you  _ gesture at him over Ariadne’s shoulder as he hugs her back, only half-joking, because Ari has been his best friend since before they even knew what best friends  _ were _ . 

It starts to rain as he’s leaving, big fat droplets that run down his nose and neck as he jogs to his car.

By the time Arthur’s back on Connecticut, he has to put his wipers on full, it’s coming down so heavily. A wind picks up from nowhere and whips the first fallen leaves across the sidewalks.

He hates the rain. 

-

When he spots a sodden-looking figure walking along the sidewalk, head bowed against the rain, Arthur winces internally and slows down so he doesn’t create a puddle-tsunami.

Something catches his eye as he passes, it’s their school mascot, and in that moment he recognises the gait, the familiar shoulders slumped forward. 

_ Eames.  _

He pulls over without thinking. His car is ancient enough that he has to lean over to manually wind down the passenger side window. 

“ _ Eames!”  _ he hollers, the wind and the rain hitting his face. Eames’ face appears, dripping and bewildered. 

“Arthur? What are you doing?” Eames has to shout to make himself heard. He wipes his face ineffectually with his sleeve; he’s truly soaked. His hair is plastered to his forehead like it is after football practice sometimes.

“What the fuck are  _ you  _ doing?” Arthur retorts, already tossing CD cases and dog-eared paperbacks onto the backseat. “Get in.”

Eames visibly hesitates, glancing around him, like he’s worried it’s a prank or something. Arthur can’t really blame him, he’d probably rather swim home than accept a ride from Eames. 

He still rolls his eyes. “Get your ass in before you drown.” 

Eames blinks at him, and Arthur watches a drop fall from his stupidly long eyelashes. Ugh. 

He must decide to take his chances in Arthur’s car because he finally pulls open the door and slides in.

He’s completely sopping, soaked through his clothes. His white t-shirt is clinging to him, translucent. Arthur can hardly bear to look away. It’s been a long time since he was this close to Eames, but the way he makes Arthur heart pretend it’s just run a fucking race is just the same. 

“Um,” Arthur says, clearing his throat, turning to rummage in the backseat. “Here,” he says, offering up his old navy sweatshirt. “I think it’s mostly clean.” He tries to smile. 

Eames takes the sweatshirt a little gingerly, as if he’s not quite sure what to do with it. He dabs at his face a bit before stripping his own t-shirt over his head and pulling the sweatshirt on.

“Thank you,” he says. 

Arthur shrugs, a little self-consciously, flicks his signal on to pull out. It’s probably good they weren’t actually moving yet, he thinks. 

“Where’re we going?” he asks, keeping his eyes determinedly on the road.

Eames tells him his address, a little wary. His knee is bouncing next to the gear shift, and out of the corner of his eye, Arthur can see his hands twisting in the sleeves of the sweatshirt, like he’s nervous or something. 

_ What the hell.  _

“I’m not going to eat you,” he says after a beat, glancing over at Eames, bemused. Eames immediately colors, a pink flush spreading over his nose and cheeks. Arthur stares in amazement, and has to jerk his eyes back to the road before he wraps them around a tree. 

Arthur doesn’t know a lot about Eames, apart from his being a mouthy asshole who doesn’t understand the canon of Western literature. An awkward summer together in the weight room before freshman year, and the few snatches of conversation he’s overheard in the hallways don’t amount to much in the greater scheme of things. 

But Arthur knows enough. He knows that Eames is popular. Eames has a whole herd of boisterous teammates, and the inevitable posse of cheerleaders and hangers-on that orbit their table in the cafeteria. He has other friends too, theatre kids, classmates from the AP English class they share, middle school friends, girls and guys. 

There’s usually a boyfriend too; a basketball player who once asked Arthur for a lighter in _ study hall _ , a guy on the wrestling team Ari tutored for a couple of weeks before her patience ran out. Last week Arthur had inadvertently turned down an otherwise deserted hallway after a School Council meeting to Eames pressing one of his teammates up against the lockers. They hadn’t seen him, and he’d immediately backtracked, but he’d jerked off twice that night to the image of Eames’ big hands sliding up under the guy’s t-shirt, angry and annoyed and so fucking jealous _.  _

Arthur’s mother works with Eames’. She’s come round to the house before, once for dinner with Eames, and once on a Saturday morning to borrow a punch bowl for a dinner party. That time she’d seen him in his ratty t-shirt and Snoopy pyjama bottoms frantically trying to cram a week’s worth of violin practice in before a lesson. She’d leant in the doorway and complimented him on his wobbly études, waving away his protests, and told him that when Eames sings even the dog covers its ears with its paws. There’d been something familiar in her gray eyes when she talked about Eames, something fond and teasing.

Arthur’s seen Eames’ dad a few times dropping him off at school. He always gives his son a hug in the car and waits until Eames has disappeared through the doors. 

Arthur knows that Eames is worshipped at school and adored at home. 

He doesn’t know why Eames was walking home alone, in the dark and rain, at eleven at night. 

He also doesn’t know, couldn’t even begin to know, how to ask Eames if he’s okay. 

He turns up the heat, and that must help because Eames stops jiggling after a minute and seems to relax a little.

Arthur thinks about asking about the game - he’s pretty sure there was one this evening, though he can’t be sure, because he does not give a single shit about the football team and does his very best to ignore anything and everything to do with them. Maybe they lost and that’s why Eames is in a funk. Perhaps they fucked up so badly their coach made them all walk home, maybe they do that in football, he’s pretty sure he saw it on  _ Friday Night Lights _ . 

He could congratulate Eames on Hamlet; he heard Travis squawking about it at full volume at lunch as he recreated Polonius’ stabbing with a cafeteria knife and a ketchup packet. He is pretty curious about that one, and it very much falls into the category of ‘Things Arthur has no clue about Eames’. 

Maybe skulking around in the dark is some sort of method acting shit. 

He tries not to glance over at Eames, who is quiet and staring out of the window, cuddled down into Arthur’s sweatshirt. 

Surreptitiously, he reaches over and fiddles with the radio, twisting the dials until he finds what he’s looking for. WIHT comes through for him and he accompanies Shakira with relish. 

He even remembers the Spanish parts. 

Eames takes the bait, as Arthur knew he would, turning and huffing out a surprised laugh. He’s smiling now, a curved twist of lips.

“Still got shitty taste in music, I see,” he snorts. 

“No fightin’,” Arthur says reflexively, ignoring the warm bloom in his chest. “We can’t all go moping round to fucking Joy Division.” Shit. He hadn’t actually meant to say that out loud. Eames has told him that  _ years  _ ago, he must sound like a complete stalker now, oh, God.

But Eames doesn’t open the door of the moving car and throw himself out, but just beams at Arthur, all crooked teeth and beautiful gray eyes. 

He reaches over and starts prodding at the radio buttons. They both get the giggles when Eames stumbles on some weird Women’s Health programme. 

“Fuck this,” Eames says over the NPR pledge drive and starts pawing through some of the CD cases littering the backseat. 

“Hey,” Arthur protests half-heartedly, heart skittering stupidly when Eames’ bare arm brushes along his own . 

“Ha!” Eames crows, triumphant, reappearing with  _ OK Computer _ , half a bag of prehistoric Swedish Fish that Arthur had forgotten about and his hair sticking up in all directions. 

“I just use that box to store my Kylie CD,” Arthur deadpans, eyes firmly on the road, but Eames’ happiness is infectious and Arthur doesn’t even protest when he starts skipping tracks. 

Eames sings, off-key and through a mouthful of fish. Arthur gives up pretending altogether and joins in.

_ Rain down, rain down, _

_ Come on rain down on me. _

_ From a great height. _

_ From a great height, height. _

They’re both still grinning when Arthur pulls up alongside Eames’ house. It’s nice, bigger than Arthur’s, with neat shutters and a basketball hoop above the garage. Arthur tears his eyes away from the light of the pretty stained glass window. 

Eames is watching him. His mouth is stained red from the fish, and the tops of his cheeks are pink but his gaze is clear and steady. It’s quiet but for the relentless drum of raindrops on the car roof.

Arthur licks his lower lip, nervous, glancing down to where Eames’ fingers are curled in the sleeves of the sweater again. Something clicks in his exhausted brain.

“Arthur -” Eames breathes, so softly Arthur’s not sure he didn’t imagine it in the wind and rain all around them. 

Arthur swallows and looks up. He could lean forward and press his lips against Eames’. He could do what he’s wanted to do for fucking  _ years _ ,  _ right now. _

He doesn’t. 

What he does is reach out and gently tug the zipper of the sweatshirt a little higher against Eames’ throat. He looks into Eames’ trusting face, and shakes his head slightly, smiling. 

“It’s been a shitty week,” Arthur says, twisting the cord of the sweatshirt around his fingers. Eames says nothing, watching Arthur’s hand. “Why,” he starts, then starts again, “Why don’t we get breakfast tomorrow?”

-

Arthur waits until Eames has jogged up the slick path and disappeared under the porch. When he drives back up the street, Eames waves from the open doorway.

Arthur fucking hates the rain, but there’s something about the mornings after a big summer storm, when everything is so damp and cool and new that _anything_ seems possible. 

__  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Set in foxxcub’s Simple Math universe. All mistakes and/or inconsistencies are my own. 
> 
> The title is from ‘I Ain’t Scared of Lightning‘ by Tom McRae.


End file.
